


smoke no more

by nightbirdrises



Series: Sinking 'verse [14]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 01:44:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2369837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightbirdrises/pseuds/nightbirdrises
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A lot of things have the potential to kill me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	smoke no more

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for this segment: discussion of smoking/quitting/etc. I don't claim to hold the same opinions as the characters.
> 
> You can read Sinking in chronological order using [this page](http://princehummel.tumblr.com/sinking), or you can read it in the order of events as I wrote them [here](http://princehummel.tumblr.com/tagged/v%3A+sinking/chrono).

_My parents will smell that._

Kurt read the board and sighed, resigned to tossing his cigarette out the window. Again. “Can we get back to business?” he asked, leaning against the windowsill and staring at Blaine, who had remained spread out on his stomach on the bed, shirtless and beautiful.

Blaine scribbled on the board again, which made him suspicious because Blaine never turned down the opportunity to fall apart by Kurt’s hands — or to take Kurt piece by shielded piece until he felt nothing but raw sensation and frozen-burning heat. Put simply, Kurt  _really_  wanted to keep going.

 _Why do you smoke?_ Blaine wrote, and he gave up on the possibility of getting off if they were going to have this conversation.

It was an innocent enough question. But Kurt didn’t have an answer that he knew Blaine would be satisfied with, not now that Blaine had sat up and started looking at him with plain curiosity. No judgment, but Kurt bristled anyways out of reflex.

"I don’t think it’s any of your business," he said calmly. Blaine blinked, taken aback, but Kurt didn’t make a move to retract his statement. He’d been smoking for, _god_ , over a year already and the prospect of a sudden stop was terrifying. It kept him upright, somehow, gave him a sense of method and ritual that stabilized the admittedly shaky life he led. 

He gazed evenly at Blaine, silently daring him to continue. Normally when the topic came up, Blaine shrugged off Kurt’s nonchalance on the matter. For that reason, he didn’t expect to read the next sentence written on the board, a perfectly steady hand holding it up in plain sight.

_Whatever I’m surrounded with is my business, what my boyfriend does to compromise his health is my business, and what I taste is my business._

"You’ve never complained about it," Kurt said, choosing to ignore the rest of the statement for simplicity’s sake.

 _Because it’s you_ , Blaine wrote, paused, continued,  _I can still taste you but it’s not enough because I’m reminded every time we kiss that you’re doing something that has the potential to kill you._

"A lot of things have the potential to kill me," he snapped, losing his patience. Kurt was tired of the reasons why he shouldn’t — all they did was root in his mind and drive him insane until he had another cigarette. It didn’t matter that he knew they were sensible, only that he was desperately afraid and unwilling to show it even to Blaine.

If he broke again, he wasn’t sure he could piece himself back together.

The slide of the marker, and,  _You know it’s unhealthy, so I just want to know why._ Blaine’s demeanor remained peaceful and free of all traces of the disappointment he expected. For some unfathomable reason, it stung.

"Last time I checked, you’re not a fucking therapist," he said quietly (or was he being loud? It was hard to tell). "I have no reason to explain myself to you." Kurt felt his voice crack, a split-second loss of tone control, on the last word and looked instantly away from Blaine.

He saw the board out of the corner of his eye and clamped his mouth shut, refusing to read it or speak. He couldn’t trust his voice anymore — and he thought he’d been getting the hang of speaking freely without worry. So much for that, and now Blaine probably was frustrated with him (for good reason) but Kurt couldn’t do what Blaine wanted.

Blaine deserved someone less broken and more willing to fix himself.

He flinched at a hand on his shoulder and swallowed, leaning heavily into the window as if he, like a ghost, could pass right through it. He wished he could. Finally looking up, Kurt saw Blaine’s expression and was shocked to see, under a thin layer of exasperation, a kind of sadness there that he didn’t understand. Pity, maybe? If so, fuck that, he thought. He didn’t need anyone’s pity, much less Blaine’s.

"I should go," he managed, cutting each word off sharply to avoid wavering. Blaine shook his head, mouthed "Please wait," but backed off to let Kurt slide the window open — a sudden wave of chilled winter air met his eyes and made them water but he climbed out anyways with a backwards glance.

He had a jacket for once, so going straight home wasn’t urgent, thank god. Kurt spent a little time at the base of the tree in Blaine’s yard, staring resolutely in the opposite direction of the house because he knew that if he looked back he would crumble.

What right did Blaine have to criticize him, even indirectly? He could smoke if he wanted to, he could drink (never mind that he avoided alcohol like the plague), he could go off right now and fuck some guy from Scandals if he damn well pleased.

… No, he couldn’t. 

Kurt huffed out a frustrated breath and watched a trail of pale condensation twist in the air and disappear. Like smoke.

Standing still started to get too cold, so he began to walk (one foot in front of the other,  _don’t fucking dare look back_ ) towards the park, his park. It came into view within minutes, the swings already dusted with snow that — oh, was falling now, slow and dreamlike.

He found an almost-comfortable spot underneath the biggest slide that hadn’t yet been touched by snow and slumped against a splintering wooden beam to think.

It took him a moment to realize what had just happened — it had all occurred so fast, so sudden. Kurt was being a complete ass about the whole situation, he knew, but…

God, why did Blaine have to bring it up? A small voice in his head sneered at him for throwing the blame at someone else, but he ignored it. He was eighteen, he could be unreasonable.

_Fuck, I need a smoke._

Kurt took the single pack he had from his pocket and pulled out the last cigarette (the lucky one, he’d heard, though he didn’t believe in those superstitions), twirling it between his fingers as he tossed the empty box away. He didn’t reach for his lighter yet; instead he inspected the thin roll in his hand with mild interest. To him, it was a promise of stability.

To his body, it was a promise of torture.

The thought settled heavy as lead in his brain, urging him to make a decent choice for once in his life, but all of it just made him want to smoke  _more_  to drive those thoughts away for a little while at least. He placed the cigarette gingerly between his lips and pulled a sleek black lighter from his pocket, positioning it — a moment’s hesitation later, a couple of quick draws to coax the flame, and it was lit.

The smoke never tasted like it used to when he’d just started (like toxic chemicals, how exactly did he get hooked again?); it was bland and actually quite dull at this point. But he was after the rush that would come… eventually. It always took a little longer than the time before.

And he knew why. He knew the dangers as well as anyone. But he was fucking terrified that he wouldn’t succeed at quitting, terrified of a life without this ritual that had so installed itself in every single waking moment — because when he wasn’t smoking, he was waiting impatiently for the next opportunity.

Kurt needed that constant in his life.

_No, I don’t._

_…Yes, I do._

_I’m a fucking addict,_  he thought firmly, the cigarette back between his fingers as he flicked off the ash — then tossed the unfinished roll to the ground and stamped it out before he could change his mind. Thank god he didn’t have more on him, or he’d almost certainly have given in.

"One day," he told himself in a whisper. If he could go one day without smoking, he could apologize to Blaine tomorrow night.

Baby steps.

At a loss for what to do with his hands, Kurt dug his phone out of his ever-present bag, fingers scraping against the smoothness of the dry-erase board he rarely used now. There were three messages.

  
**From: Blaine**  
Where are you? It’s cold.

  
**From: Blaine**  
Please let me know you’re okay.

  
**From: Blaine**  
I’m sorry for being a dick.

  
Kurt almost laughed at the last message — if Blaine had been a dick, then what about him?

  
**To: Blaine**  
I’m fine, it’s not that cold and I’m going home now. See you tomorrow

  
He refrained from tacking a question mark onto the end of the message, as if that would somehow motivate him. Baby steps, little things to center himself that didn’t belong in a research lab.

God, he needed a— No, he didn’t.

  
**From: Blaine**  
really?

  
**To: Blaine**  
I promise.

 

* * *

 

The next day found Kurt leaning against the outside wall of his house, a lit cigarette in his mouth and reluctant, angry tears burning his eyes. So much for quitting.

Blaine had been texting him for the past hour and a half, but Kurt hadn’t answered and he didn’t plan to. He’d failed, exactly as he knew he would, and he could ignore Blaine until they both moved on. It was the right thing to do, he told himself.

So why, then, was he suddenly beating a familiar path through Lima towards Blaine’s house? Habit, he supposed, but he couldn’t veer off track if he tried. It was that damn promise. Kurt wasn’t exactly angelic (never had been, even before) but he knew the value of promises.

Or maybe it was simply Blaine, who made him feel like he could fly yet still kept him close, the touch of skin providing him a sense of equilibrium. He absently clicked his tongue piercing against his teeth and thought,  _He’s just as intoxicating as a cigarette. But without the health risk._

In that case, maybe he  _could_  succeed. With help, he decided, dropping the spent cigarette along the way.

The walk seemed much shorter than usual, but maybe it was his imagination. One look at the tree told him that he wasn’t climbing it any time soon, not covered in slick, fresh snow.

Kurt stared at the front door, remembering that it was Sunday, early afternoon, and usually Blaine’s parents were out at this time. It was worth a shot, he figured as he opened the door carefully (and, he hoped, quietly).  Peering around, Kurt stepped through the entryway and searched for the stairs. He found them, but a prickling at the nape of his neck and an increase in his heart rate forced him to turn around — and come face-to-face with Mrs. Anderson herself.

Kurt gaped, eyes wide and fuck he’d been caught at things before but never had he acted like  _this_.

"I—" He stopped when she started to move her lips, but she was speaking too quickly for him to lip-read and finally he managed, "I’m deaf."

It was Mrs. Anderson’s turn to stop, her expression comical with utter surprise. “What?” she mouthed.

"Long story," he muttered. "Um, I’m here for Blaine, is he… ?" She nodded slowly and turned to call up the stairs.

Then she rounded on Kurt again and (he thought) she said, “Who are you?”

He held a hand out, going for polite seeing as he had just walked into her house without invite. “I’m Kurt Hummel,” he said, willing himself not to shut down his own voice as usual. “Blaine and I are— friends. School friends. I used to be the kicker for the football team so we kind of—”

 _I can’t believe I’m babbling_ , he groaned internally, forcing himself to stop. Mrs. Anderson didn’t respond; she looked up the stairs and Kurt followed her gaze to see Blaine standing, flabbergasted, at the top. He said something that Kurt didn’t catch and motioned for him to go up.

"I’m sorry," he said to Mrs. Anderson, and didn’t turn around as he nearly sprinted up the steps and followed Blaine to his room. "Fuck."

Blaine grabbed the board on his bed and wrote furiously — Kurt worried for a moment that the marker would break.

_what just happened isn’t important, are you okay??_

"Your grammar goes to shit when you’re like this," Kurt commented, then regretted it. "Sorry. I’m fine."

_Just fine?_

He took a deep breath, nodded. “Iwanttoquit.” Blaine tilted his head, confused. “I don’t want to smoke anymore.”

Blaine’s eyebrows rose, and a hint of a smile graced his lips.

"I tried, today," Kurt said, sitting down on the bed. "I was going to stop smoking for a whole day and then come back here to apologize to you for being… the way I was."

_And?_

"And it didn’t work. I just smoked ten minutes ago." His voice cracked, but he kept on this time. Blaine deserved his acknowledgement. "Still, I promised you I would be here, and now I am, but I fucked up."

_I’m sorry._

"Excuse me?"

 _I shouldn’t have pushed you to answer me_ , Blaine wrote, looking up at Kurt afterwards.

"Oh, B…" Kurt sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You were curious, that’s not a crime."

_I don’t care, I stand by what I said because I feel bad._

"I feel bad too," Kurt admitted. "Move on?"

 _I agree. So, quitting?_  Blaine sat down next to Kurt, the board balanced on both of their laps.

 _Quitting_ , Kurt wrote, borrowing Blaine’s marker.  _I don’t know if I can do it._

 _YOU CAN._  Blaine leaned into Kurt’s side, warm and sure.  _But I don’t know how much help I’ll be—_

The last letter trailed off into a shaky line as Kurt interrupted him with a hard, forceful kiss that he hoped got his point across. And in case it didn’t, he whispered, “You’re the reason I want to try,” and pressed Blaine into the bed, the board lost who-knows-where.


End file.
